Captive Heart
by GrecianPrincess
Summary: Chapter Eleven is now published, and ready for your viewing pleasure. To those just now reading the story...the summary is found in Chapter One.
1. Chapter One

Summary: _Lady Marjory Debaye is a young English noblewoman with immense hatred for the Scots. In the year 1297, she is captured by William Wallace and his band of rebels after they sacked her father's estate on the southern border of Scotland. He held her captive for ransom. Who would have known that the Scottish warrior would capture her heart?_

_I will try to be as historically accurate as possible. Isabella was only nine when the Scottish rebellion went on and Wallace was executed; some sources say that he did have a wife, but are not sure. The battles and dates are--to the best of my knowledge--accurate._

Chapter One

I am sure that you don't know me. Nor do you know the part I play in this tale.

My name is Marjory Debaye. I once held the title of "Lady." That doesn't matter now.

I was born in the year 1280 in London, England, to the esteemed English lord John William Debaye. My mother, the gentile Lady Jane, passed while giving birth to me. All I know of her is of her gentleness and kindness. Father grieved for her everyday.

He always said I was the ghost of my mother. I had to take his word for it, I suppose. I have raven-black hair, pale blue eyes that are the color of the river Nith, and a figure that is rather plain in my eyes.

I lived with my father in our estate of Bramblebury, on the southern border of Scotland. Bramblebury was a gift from King Edward I, for my father's years of loyal service. You see, my father was one of the king's most gallant generals. But instead of the king granting him with a higher position, he rewarded him with land. Much as he does with everyone who pleases him.

My childhood years were spent at Bramblebury: picking flowers and berries; playing in the wheaten fields. Growing up, it was just me, him, and our bevy of castle servants. Happiness bloomed every day.

Though Scotland, to me, is one of the most beautiful countires I have ever seen, my father despised it completely; he also hated all Scotsmen. I don't know where this hatred came from, but it was all he knew. His hatred for the Scots spilled over onto me. When the Scottish rebellion came into prominence in the year 1297, our shared hatred for them burned ever brighter.

"They have our protection. _Always _have. Those damned Scots should remember their place!" my father snarled. My sentiments often echoed his.

When King Edward--affectionately called "Longshanks" by those who didn't know better--called for my father's aid in the campaign against Scotland, he wasted no time in departing for London, leaving me in the care of my governess. That was fine with me. Father always left me at home with her whenever he visited London.

What Father didn't know was that the Scottish rebels attacked many wealthy English-owned estates all throughout Scotland: lifting sheep, food, armor, weapons. They sometimes took families, holding them ransom and using the ransom to fund their cause.

I was 18 when the man known as William Wallace and his small band sacked my father's estate...when he took me. This is my story.


	2. Chapter Two

_Sorry it took so long to post this chapter. Real life got in the way. Thanks to all you patient people. Here is Chapter Two. _

_Note: as far as the Scottish accent goes, I will type their words in standard form, to make it easier to read. You'll have to use your imagination. _:)

Chapter Two

_Spring, 1297. Borders of Bramblebury. _

Winter in Scotland turned into spring almost overnight. The boughs of the trees, once covered with frost, shook off the winter chill and made way for new buds. Thin blades of grass pushed their way up to the surface, reaching toward the sun. Animals that spent the long winter sleeping cautiously crept out of their homes--timid rabbits, sly foxes, mother does and new fawns.

The slight chill was evident in the morning air; however, this did not deter Marjory Debaye from taking her morning ride by the borders of the River Nith. The young woman, barely eighteen, relished this time of solitude away from Bramblebury, away from her governess--the loud, obnoxious Adelaide.

_Clip clop, clip clop. _Her horse's hooves could clearly be heard, the echo carrying off on the air. Marjory stopped every so often, taking in the beauty of the Scottish morn through her pale blue eyes, her ears catching the sound of seagulls cawing at one another near the river. The river flowed past the wheaten fields where she played as a child, long hours of seek and hide with her father; once, a clear-cut path led through the fields, past the estate of Bramblebury, to a patch of the most delicious, juicy berries--tart, yet sweet. The juice would stain her lips and fingers as she ate her fill; she'd line her pockets with them and take them to the cooks, who wouldturn them into berry pastries. She smiled at the memory of her father, laughing at the way she'd gobble the berries down; once, she bit into a bad one, a bug crawling out.

Just as quickly as the smile came to her face, it left, as her fear for her father's safety blotted out her happy memories.

Oh, her father. How she missed him.

King Edward had need of her father's help with the Scottish insurrection, and of course he went. After all, he was Lord John William Debaye, one of England's most gallant generals. Just the mention of his name put fear into the hearts of lesser men. Though she feared for him when he went away, she had total confidence in her father and her king that the rebellion would be stamped out in a month--two, at the most.

"May God protect you, father, from harm." At the close of her prayer, a strong breeze whipped her black hair about her face, obscuring her vision for a moment. Her horse whinnied, and reared up.

"Ssh, Blanchette. Ssh." Marjory kept a tight grip on the reins until the horse settled down.

"That a girl, Blanchette." She stroked one gloved hand over her horse's mane, it having a soothing effect on the animal.

A snap of branches could be heard from her immediate left, and her eyes darted in that direction. Nothing. Mayhap an animal, possibly a squirrel. But why did she get the feeling she was being watched? And why were the hairs on her neck suddenly standing up on end?

_Stop it, _she scolded herself. _You are acting like a simpering fool. 'Tis nothing. Just animals. _She didn't even believe her mind. All she could think about was that feeling of being watched. All of a sudden, she didn't want to be here anymore. Home never sounded so good to her as it did at this moment.

* * *

"Is that her, William?"

The Scotsman leaned forward on his haunches, pale blue eyes squinting against the morning light. "Aye, that's her, lad." William stared at the young daughter of the English general Debaye. She surprised him--he expected a rather grotesque woman, for her father lacked in looks. She must have inheirited her mother's beauty, he decided to himself. Her hair blacker than ink; her figure very vivacious. But he was not here to ogle the woman, he was here for one reason, and one reason only: money.

The "Scottish rebellion", the "Scottish insurrection," whatever the English called it, did not come cheap. Money for weapons, money for armor, money for horses, money for food. At first, he gained support from some of Scotland's most celebrated earls. As his renown grew, for better or worse, less of the earls were eager to offer monetary support. Never the mind. Kidnapping families and bartering for money did just as well. The end justified the means, though he never killed unless he absolutely had to.

A chill wind whipped through the air, blowing his blond hair around his eyes. In turn, it scared the horse the woman rode.

"Ssh, Blanchette. Ssh." She kept a tight grip on the reins until the horse calmed.

"That a girl, Blanchette." She stroked a hand over the horse's mane. William couldn't help but be impressed. Most of the women he'd encountered in his twenty-one years couldn't handle horses as well as this one could. Most would fall off the horses, whining about their dresses getting dirty.

He shifted weight to his other foot, keeping his gaze locked on the Englishwoman.

_Snap. _Fallen branches broke underneath, and the young woman turned her head in the direction of the sound.

"Shite," he grumbled, and threw his head over his shoulder, indicating to his men to _be quiet!_

She must have decided it was merely an animal of some sort, for she rode off in the direction of her estate. He felt relieved that the girl didn't come to investigate the noise--that would spoil his plans. If she had, her capture would have come sooner, rather than later.

He stretched to his whole height of six-and-a-half feet, feeling the effect of long hours of sitting, waiting. It hurt. He welcomed the hurt; it let him know he still lived.

William turned to his small band of men, most of them still seated, others taking his cue and standing to ease the achings in their legs.

"Alright men, listen up." Eyes turned to their leader, a man who commanded much respect. The man who would free Scotland from the hated English rule.

"I did my research, and found out from sources that the general Debaye is headquartered with Longshanks in Newcastle, no doubt planning how to stop me." He grinned, and his men grinned back. "So capturing the girl will be easy. We wait for the sun to set, then I--" he pointed at two men, "--Hamish, and Andrew, will steal into the estate. Hamish, you will head to the left wing, investigating any rooms there. Andrew, you have the right wing. I will search the upstairs. Whichever one of us finds her first, will hold our hand over her mouth just long enough to rob her of her consciousness--_we are not to kill her._ She is no good to us dead." He looked to Hamish and Andrew, who nodded in confirmation.

"When she is not conscious, we carry her out of the estate, and make our way north, out of the forest."

"William?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

The red-haired, burly giant, stood from his post. "What if we encounter anyone other than the girl?"

"Either knock them out cold, or rob them of consciousness. We are not to harm anyone, not even the girl. Though they are English..."

"Damn English," Hamish muttered in response.

William cocked a brow, then continued. "...we are not to harm them. Understood?"

Heads shook in the affirmative.

"Now, all we have to do is wait for the sun to go to bed." He sat back down on the soggy, mossy grounds, pulling his cloak tight about him.

And waited.


	3. Chapter Three

_Thanks to all of your reviews. :) Here is chapter three. _

_Note: to all of you wanting to know where Bramblebury "is", the estate rests near the town of Annan, Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland. William's hometown is Lanark, in Lanarkshire, Scotland._

Chapter Three

Besides her morning ride, the day had been a rather boring one for Marjory. She broke the fast, then spent the rest of the day with Adelaide in her lavish room, "learning the finer points of being a lady." To her governess, that meant reading and sewing, then more reading and more sewing. Reading she didn't mind; sewing, she detested. Why would she need to know how to sew clothes in the future? Wasn't that a servant's job?

"It's practicality," she always said, but Marjory had a hard time believing her. She was a _lady, _for heaven's sake. Soon, her father would betroth her in marriage to some English nobleman of his choosing; they'd set up housekeeping at his estate; she'd bear him children, and the servants would do all the sewing. Once she was married, she vowed never to lift a needle again.

She never felt so happy when she noticed the sunset through her chamber window, violet and pink hues dancing across the stone floor.

"Finally," she said, putting down the absurd needlepoint Adelaide bade her stitch--bluebirds and ribbons. "This day is over."

Adelaide raised a brow. "Yes, this day is over; but tomorrow, it all begins again."

"Joy and rapture." She stood, yawning. "I wish to retire now." Her governess moved to the wardrobe to fetch her nightclothes.

"Adelaide!" Despite her girth, she stopped abruptly in midstride.

"Yes, miss?"

"I can dress myself. Be that as it may, I am no longer a child, though you and Father _constantly _treat me like one!"

She stiffly bowed. "Apologies, my lady. I bid you good night."

"Good _night._" Her eyes followed the old woman as she crossed to the door, shutting it quietly. Marjory shook her head, and smiled. Despite all of her shortcomings, she couldn't help loving her governess. She reminded her of a grandmother, with her grayish hair always tightly plaited and pinned, thin-lensed glasses, and pudgy build.

All thoughts of Adelaide aside, she prepared for bed. 'Twas a ritual for her: first, she removed her slippers and placed them on the floor by her wardrobe; then, she stepped out of her dress, discarding it whereever--on the floor, by the fireplace hearth, near the bed. It left her in her thin white shift, which she covered with a soft bedrobe, spun from lamb's wool. She would then sit by the hearth and read, usually letters that her father had sent her. Tonight was one such night.

The letter had come two days past. As of its' arrival, her father had been away for two months, and she missed him terribly. The fire's light danced across the floors and walls, warming her as she lost herself in the letter...

_27 April, 1297_

_My dear Marjory:_

_I trust this letter finds you well. _

_I apologize that I've been away for so long, but the Scottish rebellion is becoming much more of a nuisance than we thought it would be. _

_William Wallace and his band of rebels killed a small group of about ten English soldiers in his hometown of Lanark; what the reason, I am not sure. Some say it was about a catching of fish, others say it was to avenge the desecration of his father and brother's grave. Still others say that it was to avenge his wife. There are so many stories, and King Edward is livid. His motto as far as Wallace goes is this: "Strike hard, before Wallace gains a larger flock of loyal Scottish followers." I agree with him. A shepard is not dangerous if he does not have a flock to lead. _

_I don't know how long 'twill take for us to crush the Scottish back under our heel, but hopefully 'twill be in the next few weeks. Then I can be home with you again, my daughter. _

_Take care on your morning rides. Talk is that the forests surrounding certain towns are crawling with miscreants and outlaws. _

_Till I see you again, I remain,_

_Your loving father_

* * *

His long hours of waiting came to a close at sunset, the pale violet of the sky giving way to the black of the evening. William and his men kept a sharp eye on Bramblebury all day; he was surprised, to say the least. They neither made their living with sheep, nor farming--the fields full of wheat, and void of workers. He didn't expect less from the Englishman...wealth right in front of them--even the river teemed with fish. Debaye had all the wealth, the wealth God provided, and he failed to see it. The only signs of activity: the Debaye woman in the morning, and soft candlelight flickering in the windows this eve. Nothing else.

"Alright, then." He stood once more, brushing bits of damp moss off his legs, and turned to face his men. "'Tis time." Pointing to Hamish and Andrew to come with him, he told the rest of his men to "remain in the forest. Stay out of sight, stay silent. Once we have the girl, I will tell you of our next course of action."

"Aye!" The voices of his men, though soft, were nonetheless affirming. William nodded in turn, and pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, his face becoming wreathed in shadow. Only his pale blue eyes showed.

It did not take long for the three to reach the borders of the forest. Once they did, he held up a hand, signaling his two companions to stop. He could not see them, but could feel their presence--Hamish flanked his left; Andrew, his right.

"Let me go o'er the plan again, lads. We will steal into the estate. The front would be the best place to enter--"

"I highly doubt," Hamish snorted, "that we can knock on the front door and ask them to let us in. Won't happen."

William sighed. "My friend, I know you doubt this mission. We have done a mission, two, in fact, like this one. Both successes."

"They were just two piss-ant English nobles, Will, and only for a few sacks of coins, for food and a few weapons. This is the daughter of _John Debaye, _in case you've forgotten! Edward's best general!"

"No, I'm quite aware. That is why we are here, Hamish. The money we can receive from the Debaye woman's capture will more than fund our outfit, and supply them all with better weapons, better armor."

"Aah." Hamish shook his head, and grumbled to himself, a few words escaping. "...damn mission not going to work..."

"As I was saying, the front would be the best place to enter, but it is too conspicuous. All estates have a servant's entrance, clearly marked. That's the way we should take. Once we enter, Hamish, you will head to the left wing, investigating any rooms there. Andrew, you have the right wing. I will search the upstairs. Whichever one of us finds her first, we will--"

"Hold our hand over her mouth just long enough to rob her of consciousness," Andrew supplied.

Right. _We are not to kill her._"

* * *

Marjory woke with a start, her eyes roaming the darkness of the room. The letter she held in her hands fell to the floor unnoticed.

"Oh. The fire's out. Nothing more." Was this the reason for the sudden chill that racked her entire body?

She wasn't so certain. A good night's sleep would put her to right; things always looked better in the light of the morning.

* * *

"It's time, men." He pointed to the wheaten fields. "We make for the fields. Try not to venture out into the open. Keep under cover. The night is our friend."


	4. Chapter Four

_Just updated this chapter because I noticed something very funky._

Chapter Four

The soft sound of crickets accompanied the three men's footsteps as they moved through the fields. Hamish and Andrew knew their leader was right on this count--the fields proved to be perfect cover. Thick and lush with unharvested wheat, they disguised even Hamish's burliness. Add to that the gurgling of the nearby river Nith, and any sound made by them was undetectable.

No one spoke. Each step carried them closer to the stone and mortar of Bramblebury, until finally, they reached the edge of the fields; the front of the large estate cast its moonlit shadow upon their faces.

William turned, put a finger to his lips, pointed to the front door. He shook his head, and then pointed to his right. The other two nodded, knowing--without the need for words--exactly what he meant: _Don't go in the front door. We head for the servant's entrance. _In past experience, the servant's entrance usually rested on the right side of the house, near the river; the servants needed to be within close proximity to water for the household's bathing and cooking needs, he figured.

This knowledge served him well…the trek led them to a large wooden door, worn with much use.

He held a hand up to Hamish and Andrew. _Wait here._ They watched as he tried to open the door--much to their surprise, it came open rather easily.

_The ignorance, _William sighed to himself. Only servants working for an English household would leave a door unlocked.

Beckoning to his men, _follow me_, he took a careful step inside...

Nothing, save a large cooking area. 'Twas too dark to see much of anything, nevertheless, he sensed no others in there with him. He could only hear Hamish and Andrew, coming in after him...and the sound of his own breathing. He was very surprised that no servants were around; mayhap they resided in different quarters? He didn't know; he'd still remain on guard.

"William, this place, it is rather large," Andrew whispered. "How do you propose we find our way around? We know nothing about Bramblebury--"

"Save for the fact it's one of the largest estates in the Scottish Borderlands, I know," he whispered back. He didn't know why, but he possessed an uncanny instinct--thus far, it never failed him. He trusted this instinct now. He _knew _that he--along with his friends--could navigate through the interior. They _would_ find the girl.

Walking through the dark felt, to them, like walking blind; somehow, they were able to make their way out of the kitchens. They ended up in the dining area, the room lit softly by candles mounted on wall brackets.

Hamish whistled under his breath. "Good God in heaven, have you ever seen anything such as this?"

William shook his head. "No, not as such." Did Debaye have nothing better to spend his wealth on? The dining area was lavish; the centerpiece being the ebony dining table, surrounded by thick plush dining chairs of the same hue. The wood was polished to a fine sheen--possibly with beeswax, and the tabletop covered with a white linen tablecloth.

"How do they eat without getting the tablecloth dirty?" Andrew wondered aloud.

William let a small laugh escape his lips. "Leave it to yourself, Andrew, to think on such things."

Hamish snorted. "Knowing their filthy eating habits, it gets dirty rather often. No matter, they have their English servants to tend to their every need, I suppose."

To the untrained ear, Hamish's scathing tongue sounded heartless and cruel. William knew better. 'Twas only his nature, his way of being.

"Let us leave this area, and continue our search." The other two nodded, and they quietly made their way out of the dining area, landing once again in unfamiliar territory. Just from looking, one could tell it was the main hall. It too, lavishly decorated. A winding staircase led to another floor above.

"Now, remember what I said." He urged Hamish in the direction of the left wing, and motioned for Andrew to take the right wing. William headed for the stairs.

* * *

Marjory stirred restlessly. Gods, she couldn't sleep! No matter how hard she tried, she could not drift into her dreams. 

"I suppose I am not meant to sleep tonight, eh?" she mumbled to herself, kicking the covers off and swinging her legs over the edge. Fumbling around for a lighting implement, she walked over to the wall bracket and lit a torch, the room glowing from its dull orange light. The light did nothing to warm her; so, she fumbled around for her discarded robe, as well as her slippers; both discarded under her bed. She pulled her robe back on, feeling warmth radiate through her skin, much like slipping into a warm bath.

"Much better." She sighed in contentment and lay back down.

* * *

William did a careful search of all the rooms upstairs. He wished he owned a better weapon; the only weapon he carried was a rusty broadsword he confiscated off one of the Lanark Englishmen he killed. Not that he intended to kill anyone here…there was comfort in knowing he had a good weapon at his side.

He only wished he had a weapon when those damned Englishmen hurt his wife.

By now, it spread that he killed those ten English soldiers, along with his small band of twenty men. Rumors already abounded as to why, which puzzled him. He did not wish to gain notoriety. All he wanted was a free Scotland. Those bastards deserved it, though.

They delivered his wife into the hands of Heselrig, the sheriff of Lanark. He and his Marion were at market. For whatever reason, they took the Englishmen's fancy and overpowered them, leaving him dazed and bloodied on the ground, her, they ripped her clothes from her body and tortured her cruelly. The sheriff came to the soldiers' aid, almost killing William with his beatings. He raped his wife right in front of him, only after slitting her throat and tossing her lifeless body on the ground, as if she were offal.

To this day, he could hear her screams. Guilt marred him. Guilt mixed with rage and fueled the fires of rebellion. He never expected to have men join his cause--join they did. Not long after he buried his wife's body, he gathered a small group of men and marched straight to the marketplace. The same English recognized him; by then, it was too late. Their bodies lay strewn in the streets, discarded without care or incident.

_Marion. Oh God, my Marion. _He swallowed the lump building in his throat, chastising himself. Now wasn't the time to think about such things. There was a time, a place. Now, he must focus on the task at hand.

Room after room turned up nothing. He almost gave up hope; did the girl go to Newcastle with her father? The only room left was at the very end of the hall. A faint light came from underneath the door.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved open the door…

At the sound of the door opening, Marjory bolted upright, turned her eyes toward the intrusion.

"Oh my God!" She scrambled out of bed and to the nearest corner of the room, crouching and shaking in fear at what she saw.

A silhouette of a man stood in her door, a hooded cloak pulled around him. His head nearly touched the top of the doorway; his height was terrifying. The only thing she could see in the dim was his eyes--a pale blue, much like her own. Lit with an almost insane light.

"Go away! Go away, or I'll call my father in here!"

"Your father's not here," the man said quietly. "He's in Newcastle."

Even though she could barely hear the man, she detected a Scottish brogue. How dare a Scotsman show up in her father's house? She forgot her fear for a moment.

"How did you…" She shook her head and sneered, pulling her robe tighter around her to ward off the chill. "Leave my room. Leave my father's house."

William could barely see his soon-to-be captive in the gloom, and it did not matter. He already knew what the woman looked like, for God's sake; what interest did he have in her looks? None. What he _could_ see was her fear. Very evident.

"Miss Debaye, you need not be afraid of me." He took a step forward, and saw her body flatten against the wall.

Her eyes went wide with shock. "How do you know my name?"

"Young Marjory, I know a whole lot more than you think," He removed the hood, revealing his crop of shaggy blond hair. "Your father is John William Debaye, one of Longshanks' generals. And you are his only offspring. This is why you will fetch a fine price. Your father will pay any amount to have you safe. But then, I'm getting ahead of myself." He swept into a mocking bow, and came back upright. "I am William Wallace."

_William Wallace? _The Scottish rebel her father and King Edward were trying to get rid of? She grew more afraid, and vowed not to let him see it. He _killed _those Englishmen! He'd probably kill her! She lifted her chin, and crossed her arms.

"Ecossais stupide. Mon père vous tuera ; vous ne descendrez jamais de n'importe quel argent de ma capture." The French words flowed easily off her tongue as if they were her first language. Thank God for the tutors who drilled the subjects into her while she was young. Being the barbarian that he was, he wouldn't understand what she said to him.

William sighed. French? He understood it easily enough. After his father and brother died--when he was a young lad of ten--his uncle, Argyle, took him in. He was a priest, and traveled to many different countries on various pilgrimages, taking William with him. He learned many different things, one of them being languages.

"Miss Debaye, you think me ignorant, oui? Regarding your capture, ce doit où je prie de différer, manquer. J'obtiendrai l'argent de votre capture; vastes montants."

She looked at him in shock. He understood what she said? Scots were supposed to be _barbaric_!

"What…why…" for the first time in her life, Marjory was speechless.

"Now, mademoiselle, you're coming with me…" he took one more step forward, "…and that's all there is to it."

"By God, I am _not,_" Marjory fumed, her eyes darting wildly around the room for a place to escape. She almost wished Adelaide was here--why, she didn't know; what good would the woman do? What did she want her for, company? At least if she was here, she could go and get help! _Why_ did she insist that her governess have her living quarters far away?

The only exit was her chamber door; the bastard now between her and the door. Maybe if she took off her slippers, she could outrun him…no. No time. This was her only chance…taking a deep breath, she rose and sprinted to her freedom…

William knew she'd try to escape. 'Twas only natural; if he was in her position, he'd try to do the same thing. She may be fast, but he had the advantage of longer limbs. He shot out one hand, grabbing her wrist and roughly pulling her to his form.

"Let me _go!_" She raised her free hand to slap him--he grabbed that wrist as well. She was of a fair height; however, compared to this bastard, she was diminutive. Squirming in his grasp, she managed to wrench one wrist free, feeling the bones go with a guttural _snap. _

Marjory screamed in pain. "You…you bloody _Scotsman!_" She spat out the epithet as if it tasted bad.

He didn't offer an apology, only stating, "If you hadn't squirmed about, you wouldn't be in pain right now." He turned her to where her back was facing him; one arm he secured tightly about her waist, the other hand reaching up, covering her mouth.

She struggled in his viselike grip, biting the skin of his hand, tasting dirt and blood. His blood. Eventually, her struggles ceased, and she fell limp in his arms, her world fading to black…

William did not feel sorry for her; he found her to be extremely judgmental and apathetic. It wasn't to say that he would hurt the woman purposefully; he hated that she ended up injured. While she was unconscious, either he or one of his men would examine her wrist. At the same time, he'd examine his hand. _Little hellcat_, he mused. She went out fighting, for sure.

Cradling her in his arms, he carried her out of the room.

_End note: Here are the translations as to what they are saying in French._

_Marjory--_Stupid Scot. My father will kill you; you will never get any money from my capture.

_William--_That is where I beg to differ, mademoiselle. I will get money from your capture; vast amounts.


	5. Chapter Five

_Chapter Five. Thanks for the patience. _

Chapter Five

"Will!"

He stopped on the stairs, barely feeling the weight of the young woman in his arms.

"Hamish? Or is it Andrew?"

"It's me, you glaikit cheil," a gruff voice growled.

"Ah, Hamish." He smiled in the darkness. "Was beginning to wonder about you." He carefully made his way down the stairs. "Where's Andrew?"

"Doing what you told him, no doubt." He shrugged. "Even if you didn't always order him about, the young lad knows what to do, Will. I wish he'd hurry up, though…I must show you something."

"What?"

A devilish grin crossed his face. "You'll see."

A pair of footsteps echoed softly across the stone floor, then stopped near the two men.

"Hello, Will."

"I knew you were there, Andrew," William stated. "Could hear you coming."

"Damn, and I thought I had you fooled," he snorted, knowing full well he couldn't sneak up on him. Even an _insect_ couldn't sneak up on William. He nodded to Hamish. "Hello, Hamish. I hope the two of you had better luck than me; couldn't find the woman."

"My luck must abound in multitudes, then." William turned in Andrew's direction, showing him the bundle he carried.

"Jesus, you're good." He laughed. "So, we heading out?"

"Not quite; Hamish said he needed to show me something."

"That I did." He started off in the direction of the left wing; for once leading, and the other two following. They walked down a hall, turned left, then right, then left, coming to a large wooden door at the very end of the hall.

"Here 'tis," Hamish grunted, opening the large door, light bathing the three in a warm glow.

"Had to light the wall torches to see what was in here," he explained. "Aren't you glad I did?"

William's eyes widened. "Yes, very glad, my friend." This must be Debaye's study, for a large desk stood in one corner of the large room, the top piled high with papers and books. That wasn't what held his attention--the walls were almost covered in weapons, weapons of the highest quality…maces. Swords. Daggers.

"My God, the man has enough weaponry here to open up an armory!" Andrew said, his voice a mixture of awe and slight disgust.

"Indeed, Andrew…'tis enough weaponry to do what we need to do." William nodded to his friends, who plucked every single weapon off the wall.

"We have everything, Will," Hamish said, not bothered by the weight of what he carried. "And it looks like you have everything as well," he breathed, unfazed by the sight of the unconscious Marjory.

"She's quite pretty…for an Englishwoman." Andrew, not quite as strong as Hamish, was exerting himself with the weight; his face a slight reddish tint. "I'll trade you, Will…carry these weapons, and I'll carry her."

"Not a chance." He grinned. "I miss the feel of a woman in my arms." He was joking; then again, he wasn't. He truly missed the feel of a woman…his wife. There'd be no other for him. _Marion…_the grin left his face; the old familiar lump came back up in his throat. He swallowed hard to rid himself of it.

"Alright, men. Let us leave this life of wealth and luxury behind. Hamish, lead the way out. Stay on guard."

"Aye." He disappeared out of the room first, the other two following close behind.

* * *

The three made it out of the estate without incident, taking the same path: through the borders of the fields to the forests. He went to the same clearing, and was amused at his men. They had stayed in the same spot, unmoving.

"Men, we have returned." Low cheers erupted from the group. "I have obtained the girl, as promised. Hamish and Andrew obtained something more." He jerked his head toward the two, who stepped forward and dumped their loads on the ground.

"Weapons!" the group shouted.

"Aye, and much better ones than the rusty old things we confiscated from those Lanark Englishmen." William quickly glanced at Marjory, still limp in his arms. He was surprised she hadn't awoken; his men could be rather raucous.

"Toss your old weapons asides, friends, and look through these new ones. Select the one you feel is best suited to you. I need to put down my burden…" at this, his men laughed, "…and then I will tell you our next course of action."

He walked a little ways from the group, picking out a large pine with a gnarled trunk to lean the girl up against. He kneeled down, examining her. Physically she was fine. 'Twas a pity she couldn't be quiet like this _all _the time. William gathered she was headstrong _and _outspoken, from their brief conversation.

"Let's take a look at your wrist, now," he whispered, to no one in particular, gently cradling it in his hands. Very discolored, but not broken. Just out of place. He was shocked he hadn't broken it.

She moaned, and her eyes slowly fluttered open. Cold seeped through her bed gown, her robe, her slippered feet. Why was she so cold? Where was she?

Oh God, she remembered. William Wallace. She tried to fight…he took her from her home…now she was in the forests. And _why_ was he touching her?

Marjory jerked her wrist away, as if she'd been scalded, and gritted her teeth against a fresh new wave of pain. "Don't touch me, you bastard."

He held up both hands in acquiescence. "Pardon me, mademoiselle, but I fear that I may have done you injury in our encounter of earlier. I was only trying to--"

"Help?" She laughed, an ugly laugh that was most unbecoming to her.

"Yes, 'help.' We Scotsmen have funny ideas about how to treat women--we actually treat them with kindness and respect. Now, let me mend your wrist." He reached for it again, and again she yanked back. Sighing in impatience, he spoke to her as he would a small child, each word carefully measured with patience: "Let me mend your wrist, or you may never be able to use it properly again."

Seeming to consider the fact, she slowly gave her wrist to the barbarian. He held it in one hand, the other rummaged around for something.

"What are you doing?" she asked him. William answered her naught; when finished, he held up a thick twig.

_What in the world…_Marjory was baffled. What use was a stick?

"Put that in your mouth, and bite down. Hard."

_Ah. _She saw immediately, 'twas to "catch" the pain. She didn't argue with him, but actually took the stick and placed it in her mouth, biting down on the bark.

"Good." He placed one hand on her wrist, the other on her palm. "Alright, Marjory, on my count, I am going to push this back into place. 'Twill be painful. One, two…" at three, he jerked the wrist to the side and pushed on the palm, a dull _snap_ being heard as the bones came back into place.

The stick didn't help one bloody bit. The pain was almost unbearable, and tears streamed down her cheeks, staining them. God, she had never been in this much pain!

She spit the stick out, and favored the tender wrist, rocking back and forth, glaring at him.

"Je te deteste," she muttered.

William didn't catch on that he heard, only ripping a strip of cloth from his tattered cloak and tying it around her wrist. "There. That should do it." He stood, and smiled. "Now, what to do with you, since you're awake…"

Thoughts fluttered through her mind. Not a one of them good.

Her speech quieted…and Marjory grew even more afraid.

Consciously flattening against the tree trunk, she gazed on him with fearful eyes. "Please…don't hurt me. Don't take my virtue. Please…"

He looked at her in surprise. Did she honestly think…

"I cannot believe you would think that of me." His voice held a quiet, dangerous quality. "I am a Scot, milady. No matter what preconceived notions you have of me, I have never violated a woman. Not once." He shook his head, then retorted, "Even for an Englishwoman, you are heartless, cruel, judgmental, apathetic..."

"Not more so than you, you bloody Scotsman, you who would take the lives of my countrymen without so much as a backwards glance."

He knelt down by her, his bright blue eyes boring into her own. "Milady, you do not even attempt to understand."

Marjory's body tightened, and her breath caught in her throat at his nearness. His scent enveloped her, Scottish forest and musk. Undeniably male.

"I understand more than you'll ever know, Wallace." She spat on the ground near his feet. "Now get away from me."

"As you wish." He rose, and regarded her with an expression he couldn't even begin to fathom. "Milady." William nodded curtly, and walked back to his men.

Marjory didn't realize that she had been holding her breath, until she released it, breathing life-giving air into her lungs. She said nothing, for once having nothing _to_ say. She could only stare hatefully at his back.

* * *

"Have any trouble with the lass, William?" Hamish teased upon his return. "You were over there for quite a long time."

"She kept me busy, for sure," he said, poking an elbow into his ribs, laughing. "I see that the men have found the weapons suitable, and to their liking?"

"Aye." The sharp clang of steel cut through the night chill. "Even I have managed to find something." He proudly held up a large axe--the head sharp and gleaming, the handle rough and gnarled with age. "_You _need to find something, Will. Most of the good weapons are already gone."

"My weapon suits me just fine," he lied, fingering the hilt of the rusty broadsword. In truth, he knew the decrepit sword would not last throughout one battle.

"You're a horrible liar," Hamish snorted, then let a small smile come to his face. "But a hell of a fighter. You need a new sword, Will…the one you have now won't protect you from decapitation." He jerked his head over toward the dwindling pile of weapons. "Go…pick yourself out something."

"No." His voice was curt, firm. He would not take a new sword; not with his men needing new arms more than he.

"You're so damn stubborn," Hamish sighed, and shook his head. "Very well. What is our next plan?"

"Lanark."

"Lanark? Um, Will?"

He sighed. "What?"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't we recently _flee _from Lanark?"

"I wouldn't call it fleeing, but…"

"And now you want to go _back _there? You're insane."

"Heselrig deserves to die, God forgive me--" he crossed himself, "--for what he did to my wife. Also, Hamish, our town is in the hands of cruel men. It is unforgivable. The only way to give our town its' dignity is to free it from English rule. And the only way to do that is to go to Lanark, kill that bastard sheriff, and any other feckin' Englishman who stands in our way!" William's eyes blazed with unchecked fury; his friend stood there, said nothing.

He was right. As usual. Though this moment was seized by his friend's anger, William had a sound head on his shoulders. That was why he was the leader.

"Lanark it is, this." Hamish turned to the men, now brandishing enemy weapons. "Men! To Lanark!"

A deafening cheer sounded.

* * *

"…To Lanark!" A gruff voice--not Wallace's, she knew--shouted, and the men answered in turn.

_Lanark? _Her heart thumped wildly in her chest. That was in the middle of Scotland! A full three week journey north!

God, she wished her father were here. He'd have killed that bastard in a heartbeat. Be that as it were, he wasn't. Oh God…

There was no hope for escape. None. All she could was wait until her father paid the ransom--which she expected him to--or wait for the opportunity to escape.

Marjory's eyes narrowed, and she smiled to herself. Yes. All she needed was an opportunity. She just had to keep her eyes open…


	6. Chapter Six

_Writers block and school were the two main reasons I did not post any new chapters. Thanks for being so patient with me! It's not much, but something to get the story started again._

Chapter Six

Being jostled around by a pack of loathsome Scottish brutes was _not _what she had in mind when this new day dawned. After the men became drunk with excitement about Lanark, Wallace placed her in the care of the one called Hamish. A primitive man; he did not talk to her, outside of a grunt or two.

The only good thing about this man was his size. Tall and stout, he offered some measure of protection…she could sense hatred for her in his eyes every he looked at her. No matter.

Though the sun shone bright, a thin layer of fog clung to the ground; cold seeped through her slippers and through her robe, which were both quickly becoming dirty.

"You'd think that when you idiots snatched me, you could at least have brought along some of my decent clothes," Marjory spoke, through chattering teeth.

"Dreadfully sorry, Englishwoman, but fancy dresses don't afford well when you're marching."

"So he speaks." She snorted. "Thought your tongue was cut out or something." She rubbed her arms, the goose-pimpled flesh prickly underneath her hands. God, she wished she was in her house, in her warm bed. Her mind filled with thoughts of escape, and the thoughts remained fresh in her mind.

"I speak when the company is affable." He mumbled some other words, then reached into the large pouch attached to his belt. "Here." He shoved a thick, square bundle at her. "This may shut your mouth."

Glaring at him, she snatched the bundle. "What is this?"

"As William says, 'Ignorance abounds.' It's a blanket. 'Twill keep you warm, lass." Though his comments were gruff, his tone was not.

"Thank you," she said softly, and wrapped the blanket around herself. It was soft, like the robe she was wearing, only thicker and warmer. "This is…really warm."

"Obviously." Hamish screwed up his face, and concentrated on the road ahead; but, when he was sure she couldn't see, he smiled to himself. The first time the Englishwoman showed some modicum of kindness.

* * *

Adelaide hummed to herself, as she made her way up the stairs to her lady's room. Though Marjory tended to be a spoiled girl at times, she loved her dearly, as if she were her own daughter. After the Lady Jane, Marjory's mother, passed on, the elderly governess was the closest thing she had to a mother.

She noticed some things moved around in the upstairs hallways…pictures askew on the walls, a few doors left open that were normally always closed, though it did not register in her mind that anything went awry the previous night.

She stopped at Marjory's chamber door, and tapped on it. "Lady, time to rise and shine! Time and tide wait for no one!" No answer. Assuming she was still sleeping, Adelaide opened the door and went into the room. No one. Her room was as silent as a tomb. This, she didn't find strange…often Marjory went on her morning rides in the springtime.

Adelaide prepared a fresh bath and laid out a dress of sapphire blue on the unmade bed, in preparation for her lady's return.

* * *

From William's guess, they were now about ten miles from the estate of Bramblebury. Every so often, he would glance at his men. They could have gone on marching for hours, but no man was God. Rest was sorely needed.

At the noon hour, he ordered a brief respite from the walking; enough time for his men to rest, clean themselves in the River Nith, which wound through the forests, and eat, once he had hunted some fresh elk, that is.

Before that, however, he had to check on his most valuable possession at the moment…Marjory Debaye. He whistled to himself as he made his way through the crowd and to Hamish. He sat on the ground, Marjory directly behind him, sleeping and wrapped up in a thick brown wool blanket.

"How's the lass?"

"As you can see, sleeping. Thank God." Hamish laughed quietly, and gave the sign of the cross. "She's much more amiable when she's quiet. Blathered on about being cold, and wanting her fancy clothes. Called us fools for not bringing them. Like we could."

William in turn laughed. "Well, she would be cold, with what she has on, my friend. A robe and slippers aren't quite what one wears to march in…not that she had much of a choice anyway. At least you gave her a blanket."

"My favorite blanket," Hamish grumbled. "Just to shut her mouth."

"Being your usual charming self, Hamish?" Andrew smirked as he passed by the small group on his way to the river.

"Shut your face," he growled, and rose from the ground, stretching his arms over his head. "I'm tired of watching the lass, William."

"You're just going to keep watching her. I actually have something conducive to do…I get to hunt." He ducked under Hamish's arm as Hamish took a swipe at him.

"William!" he roared.

"Sorry! Can't hear you!" William laughed, as he made his way back through the group of men. He needed to find himself a bow and arrow; he knew there was one somewhere. It would make the hunting much easier.


	7. Chapter Seven

_I'm trying to get back into the story. So there may be a few more short chapters before I delve into longer ones. _

Chapter Seven

Marjory awoke, it seemed, hours later; it was a little past the noon hour, and the men were gathered around the cooking fire, where a skinned animal of some sort roasted on a spit. She yawned, and her eyes widened as she realized one thing: Hamish was nowhere to be found. Neither was William. This would be a perfect chance to escape! While the other men filled their noses with the smell of food, she would be halfway home before anyone noticed…and laughing her head off at the stupid jackasses.

She shed the blanket, and took off in the opposite direction, not quite sure of where she was going, just as long as it was away from those Scottish rogues. Her lungs burned as she ran and ran, snapping sticks and twigs on the forest floor.

Not concerned with anyone but herself, she didn't notice when she ran head-on into a person; the force of the collision caused her to fall backwards to the ground. "Ouch," she groaned, looking at her arms. The sleeves of her robe were torn; angry red scratches marked her arms. After examining herself to make sure nothing was broken, she dared to let her eyes venture upward.

"Miss Debaye; pray tell, where were you headed?" William put his hands on his hips, his head cocked to one side. His face didn't betray any emotion; he wasn't angry, merely amused.

"Home."

"Ah, miss; home is quite a ways away; about ten, maybe fifteen miles. You would never reach Bramblebury before dark; and it's not safe to travel the forest at night." He smirked. "Plus, with all the wild animals, you would be torn apart, limb from limb. You wouldn't live to see daylight."

Marjory scowled. He was right, of course. She wanted to wipe that smug look off his face. God, how she hated that man! "I'll take my chances, sir. Being eaten by animals would be better than having to endure your company." She stood, and tried to continue on her way--he would not let her, and stood in front her intended path.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"Oh yes, I'm afraid that you _can_, and you _will._" She stepped around him, tired of his ruthless male attitude.

He grabbed hold of one of her arms, pulling her close to his body. For all practical intentions, it should have had no effect on him. This was an Englishwoman, who ridiculed and scorned him. But the feel of her body pressed up against his own, her curves melding to his muscular frame…it ignited strange feelings within him. Feelings he hadn't felt since his Marian. Without thinking, he leaned down, pressing his lips to her own…

Marjory didn't want to feel anything, didn't want the nearness of him, the scent of his male musk, to stir up any feelings within her. This was a Scot. This was the enemy, her head told her. Her heart refused to listen, and she let him partake of her lips. Her first kiss. There was nothing tentative about this kiss, it wasn't polite and amiable. It was savage. Selfish. Taking. He let go of her arm…both of her arms then snaked around his neck…

_Wait a minute. Stop this, Marjory Debaye!_ She jerked away from him, as if his touch burned her. "How dare you!"

"Apologies. I forgot English don't feel anything." His tone and demeanor changed from teasing and flirtatious to emotionless, flat. "Now, let us return to camp, shall we? Before the wild animals catch us both."

She gritted her teeth and nodded, keeping pace in front of him. _It's not like I have a choice, _she reminded herself. _This is against my will. _Marjory could only hope that word would reach her father soon of her plight; that he'd pay whatever bloody price William asked for, so she could get the hell out of here. She tried to stay angry, tried to will her thoughts back to loathing and hatred…but her thoughts kept drifting back to the kiss they shared. For a Scot, he was experienced in that art. Her fingers drifted up to her lips, remembering the feel of his insistence and fervor. A small smile crossed her lips. _I wonder if he felt anything at all?_ She doubted it. She was only a name to him. A big, fat, campaign purse.

William trained both eyes on Marjory, making sure the lass stayed in front of him and didn't try anything foolish. He wanted to think of her as just an Englishwoman, just the daughter of John William Debaye, the English general. The woman whose ransom would provide much for the Scottish campaign. William found himself thinking of their kiss. He knew of her inexperience; it showed in her return. What fun he could have, teaching her. He could teach her a lot of things…_William Wallace, how could you deign to think of such? This is an Englishwoman. The enemy. Plus, your wife is dead. You cannot disrespect her memory. That's that. _


	8. Chapter Eight

_I wish to say, before I start this chapter, that I am grateful for all the reviews! It's nice to know that you all like my story as much as I like writing it for you. Enjoy this chapter, I had lots of fun writing it. J_

Chapter Eight

The minute he and Marjory returned to camp, he pointed to the tree she was sitting by previously. "There. Sit right there, and don't move, or I'll have to do terrible things to you." William shook his head, and went toward the main cookfire, where Hamish was making short work of the roasted elk, and sitting with a few men.

"…and then, I punched William right in the face! He remembered who I was right away, of course." Hamish laughed.

"As I remember the tale right, at the end, I smacked you on the head with a rock." William said, stopping near him.

"Yes, young Wallace," Campbell said, smiling. "Was quite a fine display."

"Father," Hamish whispered, a pink blush tinting his face. "Did you have to mention that?"

"Of course I did." The men laughed.

"Hamish, may I talk with you for a minute…in private?" William asked, once the men ceased laughing.

"Of course, William. Excuse me, everybody; father."

"Bring my son back in one piece, young Wallace," Campbell teased.

"I promise, I will refrain from strangling your son," William said, walking away from the campfire, Hamish following.

"Is something wrong?"

"Yes, Hamish; there is. Do you see Marjory Debaye over there?"

Hamish looked over his shoulder at the young woman, her arms crossed; her face contorted in a vicious snarl. "Oh, yes…she's awake and angry at something or another. And they say to avoid redheads like the plague. Ha!"

"She's angry because I caught her sneaking away, when I was doing my rounds." His brow rose. "Weren't you supposed to be looking after her?"

"But she was asleep, William!" Hamish grumbled. "You also take a long time doing the rounds! And I was hungry! I thought she'd _stay _asleep."

"Apparently _not, _you big heap." William smacked him upside his head. "If you can't do a simple job I appoint to you, I am going to find someone who can. Understood?"

"Yes, yes…I understand. Jesus, man; you didn't have to hit so hard." Hamish rubbed his head.

"Consider it payback for all the times you hit me as a child." William nodded toward Marjory. "Now, go do your job."

"Alright, alright…" he started over to her, and stopped for a moment, turning back. "Try the elk. It's rather tasty." He belched--rather loudly--and laughed. "Compliments to the cook." William mumbled something he couldn't hear, and he knew it was because barely any meat remained. It was too good to just let go to waste, that was for damn sure.

Hamish sat down near Marjory, belching once more.

"Well, well, well…" he bellowed, arms outstretched. "If it isn't the little escapee."

Marjory glared at him. "Well well well…if it isn't the big, red-headed oaf."

"Back to your old self, I see…I knew you couldn't stay quiet for long. I'll be glad when we're finally rid of you."

"Believe me, I will shed tears of joy the day my father pays my ransom price, and I am finally rid of you brutes." Marjory turned away, her arms crossed.

"Alright, men; listen up!" William yelled. Everybody stopped what they were doing, and turned their attention toward their leader. "Resting is over! Gather up your belongings! Let's march!" The camp became a bustle of activity: fires put out, weapons gathered.

"…that means you as well, lass." Hamish rose, and motioned with his finger. "Come on."

"Fine, fine." She rolled her eyes and got up, gathering the blanket around her. "Here we go again, marching all bloody day long."

Hamish laughed to himself. For a woman, she sure had a mouth on her.

* * *

As each day passed, Lanark drew closer. Nearly three weeks passed, and this, by far, was the longest stretch of time Marjory had gone without changing clothes. Her nightgown, once a creamy white, was now a dingy gray. She abandoned her robe long ago, it being caked with moss and mud, and fashioned a makeshift one out of the blanket Hamish gave her. It kept her warm, though Hamish didn't fully appreciate her decimating his blanket.

"Well, you don't expect me to go wandering around camp in just my nightgown, now do you, you red-headed oaf?" This time, the endearment was less scathing, more humorous. During the course of these past three weeks, she was slowly warming up to the Scotsmen. _I can't stay mad forever, _she figured. As long as she was in this situation, she would try and make the best of it.

When they stopped in various spots to make camp, Marjory would fetch water from wherever she could, and even cooked a bit, though she never really cooked much of anything in her life; the servants were the main ones that did the cooking. Stephen and Hamish would tease her about it, and she would joke along with them. The three would have conversations about many things, and she was surprised at how intelligent they were, and how much they knew. She would stick near those two, steering clear of the other men, especially William. He acted as if she disgusted him, ever since the kiss the two shared. He didn't speak with her at all, only nodding hello every now and then.

The only one she worried about back at home was Adelaide. She would be absolutely sick, wondering what happened to her. The rest of the servants probably rejoiced. Needless to say, she wasn't very popular with Bramblebury's house staff. They were all Scottish, which always surprised Marjory, since her father hated them so much.

* * *

Right now, at this very moment, Adelaide was in her quarters, on her elderly knees, praying to a God she long abandoned, hoping that Marjory was alright. She didn't dare send anything to John; Marjory's father had enough to worry about with the Scottish insurrection. He didn't need to worry about his daughter, even if she was in the hands of Scotland's most vile brute.

* * *

After one more day's worth of travel and rest, they finally made their way out of the forests, and landed on the outskirts of Lanark. William held one arm up, signaling his men to stop. "Rest for a while, men. Hamish, Campbell, Andrew…I need to speak with you for a moment." He nodded toward a random individual. "Watch Miss Debaye." The man nodded, and kept a firm grip on Marjory's arm. She shook his grip free, and gritted her teeth. "I don't need watching. I'm not going to do anything." It would be foolish of her to. She was such a long way from home, and even if she tried to escape again, she would die. Right now, she was better off where she was.

The four: William, Hamish, Campbell, and Andrew, stood away from the group, conferring.

"The garrison is not far from here." William motioned toward an outpost, constructed from many logs that were sharpened on one end.

"How do you propose we get in, lad?" Campbell questioned. "It's not like we can just stroll on in."

William scratched his head. "Well, if I know Heselrig, he'll be standing watch with some of his men atop the watchtower. I'll go riding in, 'surrender,', which will give you and the other men enough time to get into position around the garrison."

"Yes, William," Hamish prompted. "And then?"

"Whichever English soldier is unfortunate to come across me first, they will receive a most unpleasant surprise." William refused to say what. "When I dispose of the first English solider, you and the men will come to my aid, and we'll kill every damn soldier that crosses our path. We'll retake the city of Lanark, and put it back into Scottish hands!"

"What about Heselrig?" Andrew whispered.

"Leave him to me," William whispered back, his pale blue eyes darkening with anger. "Heselrig will feel the fires of hell burning him soon enough."

_Well well…the battle will soon begin. I want to prepare it very well…Chapter Nine will hold the battle to regain Wallace's hometown of Lanark…for pride and vengeance. Coming soon in future chapters...the introduction of Marjory's father, John William Debaye; the introduction of Edward "Longshanks", and the introduction of Robert the Bruce!_


	9. Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

_I noticed an error in Chapter Eight. Stephen isn't even in the picture yet. It was meant to be Andrew. Sorry 'bout that. Oh yeah, and sorry that I took so long with this chapter. School is killing me. _

The group of four came back, a stoic look plastered on their faces. "Alright men!" Hamish yelled, and they fell silent. "William's got something to say." He motioned at him. "Go ahead, lad."

"Thanks, Hamish." William cleared his throat. "Here is the plan. I shall go riding in on a horse to the garrison, and 'surrender.' This will give you all enough time to get into position around the garrison." As he talked, his gaze slipped over each and every man. "Then, I will give the first Englishman I come across a rather…nasty surprise. That is your cue. You will climb over the walls, and we will kill every damn Englishman we come across. But leave Heselrig to me. Understood?"

"Aye." The men spoke in unison.

"What? I can't hear you…" William cupped his hand to his ear.

"AYE!"

William held up his rusted sword, and yelled along with his men. After they were all yelled out, he motioned to their weapons. "Check your weapons, men." He leaned toward Hamish, and whispered, "Find me a horse. Quickly." Hamish nodded, and disappeared. "You!" He pointed to the man watching Marjory. "Come."

"I'll be right back, lass." He nodded at her, and jogged over to William. "Yes?"

"You will not fight." He opened his mouth in protest, and William--almost as if anticipating it--placed his hand on his shoulder. "I have every confidence in your fighting skills. I just need someone to watch the lady. Make sure she doesn't escape." Slumping his shoulders in defeat, he slunk back over to Marjory, and sat down by a tree, grumbling to himself.

Marjory, still standing, looked back at him, and smirked. _Poor thing. He doesn't get to fight. He's stuck watching me. Not that I would do anything. _Suddenly, she felt someone's eyes upon her, and her pale blue eyes locked with the pale blue eyes of William Wallace. They were filled with an old loathing that was growing tiresome. She shot a stare at him that said _Yes, I know you hate me. I hate you, too. _

William read the words in her stare, and returned them with equal fervor. They were quite obvious. She hated him. This loathing between the two was growing rather tiresome. He disliked the lass about as much as she disliked him, that much was true. But it felt so…right, when he kissed her. He wondered if she felt the same…

"William?"

Snapping out of his thoughts, he met the quizzical stare of his friend. "You alright?"

"Fine, Hamish. Fine." William nodded: once in affirmation of his friend's question, and once in approval of the horse. He was a fine beast; black, with intelligent eyes. "Just fine." He stroked the beast's neck, and he whinnied in response to his touch. William mounted the horse, and nodded to Hamish. "Get the men ready. I ride."

Hamish nodded, and walked over to the men. "Let us make ready." The men kept to the edge of the forest, nearing the garrison with each step.

Marjory watched William until he was out of sight, and to her utter surprise, offered up a prayer to God, someone whom she abandoned long ago. _Heavenly Father, please protect William. Please protect the men. _

She looked at the man watching her, who only grunted, and turned his gaze away from her, looking after Hamish and the others wistfully.

* * *

William rode closer to the garrison's entrance, finally approaching the makeshift opening meant to be a door. No Englishmen were posted there, which did not surprise him. _They aren't expecting their own deaths_, he thought grimly, and slowed the horse down. The horse snorted, and took slow, measured steps. He glanced up to the watchtower, and almost laughed. Just as he thought. The idiot Heselrig, watching for him. Waiting. With one of his idiotic English soldiers.

The horse went further into the garrison, and the English soldiers wandering around inside stopped, and stared at him curiously, as if they couldn't believe that the great Wallace would ever give himself up willingly. He let go of the reins, and offered his hands in defeat, placing them behind his head, his fingers intertwined.

One English soldier caught up with him and grabbed a hold of the reins, and tugged. "Whoa, boy." He then made his way around to the horse's left flank, all the while keeping his eye on William, as if he would vanish into thin air.

All at once, he slipped his hand down his shirt, pulling out the surprise he spoke of earlier: a flail; a small, but effective weapon. His arm swung in a short arc, the flail making contact with flesh and bone. The Englishman fell to the ground, dead.

Another soldier cried out in outrage and rushed at him, spear in hand. The horse reared up in fear, and he used that moment to stab the horse in the neck. It, too, fell to the ground, and William with it. He managed to free himself and pulled out his sword, slashing once, twice, then slicing his neck artery.

The moment came, and the roar of twenty-something Scotsmen cut through the air. Clang of sword and the coppery smell of blood foretold this tale of battle running through Lanark. Each man for himself against the English bastards, and not one of them remained alive. Except…

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the familiar red and white striped fool trying to escape through the garrison entrance. "STOP HIM!" William bellowed, and Hamish ran, cutting Heselrig off not by speed, but by sheer size. Not that the Sheriff of Lanark was a fast runner; Hamish was able to catch up to him easily by making a diving tackle at him, knocking them both to the grass.

"Dirty English coward," he spit, and stood. "Get up." When he wouldn't, Hamish kicked him in the side. "Get…up." Now the man truly could not, for he was wheezing from lost breath. The red giant helped him, grasping a hold of the ridiculous striped cloak and yanking him rudely to his feet.

"I…" Heselrig wheezed, and went to the entrance once more, only to have his way blocked by more Scotsmen; the left and the right yielded the same results. And while going forward, he wished he hadn't, for he met the eyes of the rebel.

_This is him, _William thought. This is the man that killed my wife. So many emotions were running through him--anger, pain, frustration. _Why am I not killing the bastard? _

He didn't know why Heselrig shook in fear, but to the sheriff it was obvious. Blood from his soldiers covered his body and clothes in a morbid war paint, contrasting very keenly with his eyes. Oh God, his eyes…that clear, bright blue, now possessed. The Devil…

William looked at him for a few moments more, before his sense finally came back to him. Growling in rage, he kicked Heselrig, knocking him back down to the ground like the worm he was. Not waiting for him to get up, he grabbed an arm and forced him up, ignoring the sound of bones snapping and the sheriff screaming in pain.

"I broke your arm? Good." He grasped his sword and placed the cold metal of the blade underneath the coward's neck. "Know the fear my wife, Marian, felt while you had the knife at her throat, when you took advantage of her. I'll see you in hell!" One quick slice, and it was over. Blood poured from the wound on Heselrig's throat, and he fell to the ground, lifeless.

Immediately, the cries of, "WALLACE! WALLACE!" sounded throughout the air, but he could take no pleasure in it. Not now. He only stared blankly at the men, and shouted, almost as a formality: "Lanark is now back in Scottish hands!" The cries grew ever louder, and he did his best to tune them out.

_I avenged you, Marian, _he sighed, and waited for the sense of inner peace. However, it did not come.


	10. Chapter Ten

_To make up for the long wait, I took my time with this chapter, making it long. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks to all old and new reviewers._

Chapter Ten

Even from the borders of the forest, Marjory could hear the sounds of battle: the clanging of swords, the eruption of battle cries. She swore to God that she could smell blood…but maybe that was just her imagination. She did not even know what blood smelled like. After all, this was the closest she had ever been to a battle, and even then, it was not _that _close.

Almost as soon as the sounds started, they quelled, before the cry of "WALLACE!" pierced through the silence.

"They won," she whispered, expecting to feel disgust. But…no. A quiet sense of relief spread through her, and she did not know why. Maybe in her mind, she thought it was truly over; that home was soon to appear on her horizon. It was her fervent wish, her fervent prayer, and she _knew_ that wish would not come true. At least, not yet.

The sky grew pinkish with the setting of the sun…

"…Miss Debaye?"

"Hmm?" She looked up to see her guard, and Hamish; the latter standing over her with bloodied skin and clothes.

"By God!" Marjory scrambled to her feet. "Are you alright?"

"Fine lass, just fine." He smiled, touched at her concern. "William sent for you, and the one guarding you. 'Tis safe to come into the city now."

"Is it?" She glanced over his shoulder toward the city of Lanark.

Hamish followed her glance. "It's safe, believe me." He held out his arms. "Would I lie to you?"

"Yes." Laughing, she followed him into the city. Whatever the mood was in Lanark before; now, it was jovial, happy. Men chatted amongst themselves while collecting fallen enemy weapons, burning bodies. A few broke into some bottles of whiskey that--no doubt--belonged to the English, and here and there, drunken laughter filled the air.

"Ah. Father, Andrew." Hamish smiled, stopping in front of one of many cook fires. Campbell sat down on an old tree stump; Andrew stood by Campbell, acknowledging Marjory with a small smile and a nod. "Lad," Hamish motioned to Marjory's guard, "inform Wallace that Miss Debaye is in the city." He pointed to a makeshift tent, set far away from the reckless proceedings. "He's in there."

"Aye." He rushed off to the tent.

"I see you are doing well, father?" Hamish crossed his arms.

"Oh, aye, son." Campbell slurred, taking a swig of whiskey.

Marjory gasped, putting one hand to her mouth. "No, you're not, sir! You have an arrow embedded in your chest!"

"This?" he belched. "This is nothing."

"Um, Campbell?" Andrew cleared his throat. "You do know, eventually, that the arrow will have to come out?"

"Of course, though I intend to drink more whiskey before _that _feat is attempted!" Raising the bottle to nothing in particular, he took another long swig.

"May as well make yourself comfortable, lass," Andrew sighed. "I know him--once he starts drinking, it's hard for him to stop."

Marjory sat down on the soft ground, near the fire; Hamish as well. She stared over at William's occupied tent. "Hamish, I'm curious. Why is William making himself scarce? I would expect him to be out here, celebrating his victory with the men."

"He gets lonely sometimes, lass." He looked at the tent, then back to her. "I will tell you something that may make you better understand why William is doing what he's doing. I want you to truly listen to me."

His tone was so forlorn and so unlike his normal gruff boisterousness, that she took pause. "I'm listening."

"William, as a young lad, lost both his father and brother in an English skirmish. Upon their burial, his uncle Argyle, a priest, came and took him away. He came back to Scotland to start life anew…to raise a family."

"Beg pardon?" It was hard to think of the Scottish warrior, the man already well known by the English king, as a family man. "William…wanted to raise a family?"

"Aye." He nodded. "He wed a lass he knew since childhood, Marian."

"What happened?"

"_Prima noctes._"

"First night?" A barbaric practice, in her opinion, where the lord ruling the land "blessed" the marriage. "I thought…at least, father told me King Edward stopped using that practice long ago--"

"William married her in secret, in Selkirk Forest," he went on, as if he did not hear her. "This way, he had no need of sharing her with an English lord. While in the marketplace one day…ten English soldiers surrounded them, beating him so severely, he could not stand. Heselrig, the Sheriff of Lanark raped her and then…he slit her throat."

"Oh, dear Lord…" Marjory had a hard time holding back her mounting anger. She believed in the sanctity of marriage, despite the fact hers would be arranged. And Heselrig…wearing a badge of morality underneath a mask of righteousness. He was her father's best friend! Doing something like that…no wonder the Scots hated the English so much.

"That is why we took you. The money from your capture will help our people." He placed a hand on her shoulder. I know that you hate your situation right now, God knows I do. It will be over soon."

She wanted to believe him, she really did. "I…"

"I think I am quite drunk now, lads," Campbell slurred, breaking up the conversation. Marjory stood, regarding the drunken man with a curious eye.

"Alright." Hamish stood, moving closer to his father, and taking hold of the embedded arrow. "Hold stout. One, two…" on the count of three, he pulled the arrow out in one swift jerk, tossing it aside.

"Oh, you imbecile boy, you…" a stream of profanity poured from Campbell's mouth; she heard nothing like it in all her days. Her mouth dropped open in pure shock. Even her father cursed every occasionally…not like this.

"I'll be back," Hamish said, walking away.

"Where is he going?" Marjory asked. Her question was immediately answered, for he came back with something reminiscent of a fireplace poker, the tip glowing orange.

"You may wish to stand by me, lass," Andrew said. She asked no questions, and did as she was told, for once in her life.

Hamish paused hesitantly in front of his father, brandishing the poker, as a sort of clumsy weapon.

"What are you waiting for, boy?" Campbell laughed.

"Here, Marjory…" Hamish handed her the poker. "You…you can do it. I'll help hold him down."

"Do _what, _exactly?" A quizzical look crossed her face.

"Cauterize the wound, so it won't bleed." Hamish took hold of father's arms.

"Oh, no, no." She offered a weak smile. "Not a chance in…hey, you!" Her guard had come out of William's tent, and ventured over to her. "Here. You can do it." Marjory transferred the poker to him. "I'll…just step back." Stepping further back behind Andrew, she had a backside view of the events about to unfold.

"Lass!"

"Damn," she swore under her breath, and stepped back, unwillingly, toward and in front of the charismatic quartet of Andrew, Hamish, Campbell, and her guard. "Yes?"

"Here," Campbell presented her with his whiskey bottle. "Take this. Pour it straight into the wound…please," he said, at her confused look. "Just indulge me…now!" She bit her lip, and did as he requested. "Sorry," she apologized, as he grimaced, and stepped away, now behind her guard.

"…Alright, now!" Hamish yelled, and the guard stepped forward, placing the poker on his wound. Marjory was usually prepared for anything; but not for Campbell's agonizing screams of pain. His eyes bugged, and he thrashed against his son's ironclad grip.

"Father, I'm letting go!" The minute Hamish let go, Campbell stood, and charged drunkenly at the man brandishing the poker. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" he shrieked, though Campbell heard none of it. A solid punch landed on his jaw, and he fell to the ground in an unconscious heap, poker and all. "That'll wake you up in the morning, boy!" Andrew and Hamish started laughing, along with Campbell.

She could only stare at the unconscious man at her feet. "I fail to see the humor in the situation."

"Ah, come on now, lass!" Campbell boomed, slinging an arm around her slim shoulders. "Take a swig of that whiskey you're holding, 'twill loosen you up!"

God, she forgot she was even holding the whiskey. "No, I am perfectly fine, thank you."

"Then give it to me."

"Suit yourself." She handed the whiskey bottle to him.

"Somebody's coming!" a scout atop the former English garrison's tower yelled.

"Arm yourselves!" Campbell bellowed, letting the whiskey bottle fall to the ground, unnoticed for the time being. He grabbed a nearby weapon with one hand, and shoved Marjory in the direction of William's tent with the other. "Lass, go tell William somebody's coming! Make haste!"

She picked up her nightskirts and ran, losing both her slippers in the process; barely feeling the cold ground under her feet. Her breath felt like it would leave her lungs before she reached his tent; thankfully, it did not. Bursting through the tent flaps, she found a strange sight…

William sat on the ground in front of a small fire, staring into its dancing embers. In his hands, he held a small piece of cloth.

"William?" He did not answer. Moving closer to him, she leaned down and placed one small hand on his shoulder. "Will--"

He started, whipping around, his blue eyes wild, nostrils flaring.

Stumbling back a bit, she mumbled, "Campbell sent me for you. He said someone is coming…" he rushed out of the tent before she could even finish her sentence, leaving her alone and in silence.

Not sure of what to do, she sat down by the fire, huddling close for the warmth that was in it. She tried to listen to the commotion going on outside, but the voices were too muffled for her to discern anything of importance, so she gave up, and stared into the fire, much like William did moments before.

After a period, the tent flap opened again. She forced her eyes away from the fire, and stared at William, expecting to see the same look of loathing for her in his eyes. A sadness, such as she had never seen (as of yet) from the Scotsman, reflected in their depths.

"William…" she scrambled to her feet. "I…" Clearing her throat, she blurted out, "Hamish told me about your wife, Marion."

"And what do you make of me now?" His voice was flat, toneless…emotionless.

"I know why you hate the English so much," she stated. "I see why you took me from my father's house. And I see what I've been trying to deny these many weeks…you are human, not the barbaric monster I painted you to be." Stepping closer to him, she put one hand on his cheek, hearing his breathing quicken. "You are human. I just ask one thing of you…please; get me back to my father, as quickly as possible. Please." Without another word, she lowered her hand and left his tent, not sparing a single glance for the man wallowing in his own grief.


	11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

_There is some movie verse in this chapter. _

William sat by the fire in his tent, his wife's handkerchief--her pledge to him--resting unnoticed in his hands. The fire filled the tent with great warmth, but his flesh was cold. He felt absolutely nothing, which was odd to him. He killed the murdering bastard who dared to kill his wife. His hometown was free of control from the hated English.

And he felt nothing.

Vengeance did not bring his wife back. Nothing would. _Dear Lord, I want to stop thinking of her, but I cannot. Please, please, just let me get through this night without seeing her face, without hearing her laughter. _He wanted to get through just one night without remembering what it was like to share himself with her. They were going to have children; they were going to settle down on his old family farm, and share their lives with one another.

God apparently didn't agree with his plans. Now Marion was dead. He killed the man, imprinting God's justice. Would it stop here? Unfortunately, no. Home was not in his future.

"…William?" He didn't hear his name called, or the soft footsteps of a woman. "Will--" he felt her hand on his shoulder, and he spun around, eyes wild, nostrils flaring.

"Campbell sent me for you. He said someone is coming…" without a word to Marjory, he left the tent, and ran up to Campbell, to find out what the commotion was about. The old man stood by the road, pointing out at a small gaggle of men. "It's the MacGregors. From the next clan."

William wanted to say, "So?" He kept silent as the presumed leader of the clan ran up to him, out of breath. "We heard about what was happenin'. And we don't want you omadhauns thinkin' ye can 'ave your fun without us." The clan murmured in agreement, "That's right, that's right."

_Fun_? They thought they were doing this…for fun? William tucked his wife's handkerchief back into his tunic, and sighed. "Go home." The MacGregors looked at him as if he was insane, but he didn't care. "Some of are in this…can't help that now. But you can help yourselves…go home." He turned away, thinking that was the end of it.

"We'll have no homes left when the English garrison from the castle comes through and burns us out." William turned back around, the leader pointing his finger at him. "And they will."

The man talked with an air of "you know it will happen." William knew he was right…the English, in retaliation for the Scottish insurrection, would torch any home in their path. "Alright." He nodded, and welcomed the men, excusing himself after a few minutes to go back to his tent. He pushed the flap open, and stepped inside, staring with sadness at the woman sitting by the fire. Seeing any kind of woman brought back his pain, and memories of his wife.

"William…" she scrambled to her feet. "I…Hamish told me about your wife, Marion."

"And what do you make of me now?" No emotion crept into his voice, as meant to. Why show his emotions to someone who didn't care for him?

"I know why you hate the English so much. I see why you took me from my father's house. And I see what I've been trying to deny these many weeks…you are human, not the barbaric monster I painted you to be." She came closer to him, and placed one hand on his cheek. His breathing quickened at her touch; the warmth of her palm seeped into his skin.

"You are human. I just ask one thing of you…please; get me back to my father, as quickly as possible. Please." She removed her hand and left his tent, not looking back.

"She had no shoes," he whispered, thinking it odd that this particular thought popped up. Shaking his head, he moved closer to the fire, sat down.

The tent flap opened again, and this time, Campbell, Hamish, and Andrew entered.

"Well, well, lad…" Campbell boomed. No queries as to why he wasn't joining in the celebrations came out of anyone's mouth. The three took seats around the fire; Hamish to William's left, Andrew to his right, Campbell across from him. "What is our course of action?"

"You mean after this _spectacular _victory?" Andrew grinned. "Lanark _finally _out of English hands?" He raised an imaginary tankard of ale in the air. "Cheers."

Hamish chuckled. "Come off it."

"Well…" William stretched his legs out in front of him, bending them at the knee. "Have you burnt the corpse of Heselrig yet?"

"We did not," Hamish said. "We wanted to wait for your orders on that one."

"Good. I am going to dismember that bastard. He deserves neither a burial nor a burning, God forgive me." He crossed himself. "As to what we'll do after that…we shall leave a few of our men to hold down the city of Lanark, then 'tis on to Loudon Hill, and the salacious Lord Bottoms."

At the mention of the name Bottoms, Andrew's face grew stony. The man Bottoms took his wife, on the day of their wedding, for the bloody _prima noctes. _"I have plans for him."

"That you do," William stated. "That's why we're going…so that you may extract your vengeance." In part. The other half was to rid Scotland of all English garrisons, and Loudon Hill seemed as good a place as any. "It will take a while to get there…so we will start out tomorrow." Standing, the others stood up with him. "Hamish, make sure the men are ready for tomorrow. Gather some uniforms off the non-burned English dead. Campbell, designate a few able men that can take care of the town. Andrew…see after Marjory."

"When will be rid of the English tart?" Campbell said, trying to make William smile. "I actually am growing fond of the lass."

"As well as I," Hamish said. Andrew only grunted in response.

"Upon reaching Loudon Hill, any Englishmen who do not resist, we keep them alive, and send word of Miss Debaye's capture with them, along to the great General. We'll request five thousand pounds sterling, and have word sent back to us in some form. We won't be rid of her just yet." The tone of his voice indicated to the three the conversation was over, and they left the tent, leaving William alone again.

* * *

Marjory's slippers were truly lost, and her feet were freezing. This was one of the few times she cursed Scottish weather. She found the nearest cookfire and huddled, putting her feet as close to the warmth as possible without searing the flesh. Thank goodness for her warm robe.

A few minutes passed, and Andrew came over to her, sitting down beside her.

"William asked me to come see after you." She didn't look at him, merely stared into the fire like William did moments before. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine…despite the fact I lost my shoes." She pointed at her feet, and Andrew smiled.

"No shoes, hmm. We'll see about that." He reached into his boot, pulled out a knife, and grasped the hem of her robe. He cut a large swatch of cloth from the hem, and motioned for her to stick her foot out. She obliged, turning away from the fire and toward him, sticking out her right foot. Using the knife, he cut the cloth into strips, folding the largest one and putting it over her foot. "That's the boot part," he explained, and took some of the smaller strips, tying them in various parts around the boot, to secure it. "Other foot, then?"

"I'll do it," a voice said, and they both looked up.

"Ah, William." Andrew stood, bending down to put the knife back in his boot. "Have your fun with Heselrig, then?"

He nodded. "I want you to patrol the camp with Hamish, make sure every man is ready for departure tomorrow."

"Aye." Andrew left, leaving her and William alone.

"Lass, your foot?"

"Oh, yes." She offered him her left foot, gasping a bit at his touch, his large hands dwarfing, and the skin warm. His hands lingered longer than she thought possible. "…William?"

"Apologies." He cleared his throat, and fashioned the other boot. "There it is." He stood, and Marjory thought he would leave. Just as quickly as he stood, he sat back down.

"You know Marion was my wife, yes?"

Marjory nodded, wondering where this was going.

"I married her in secret because I would not share her with an English lord. They killed her…Heselrig killed her…to get to me."

His throat tightened and he looked at the ground, balling up his fists to keep from hitting something. "I've never spoken of it to anyone…people know of it; I've never spoken of it. I know Hamish has told you…I don't know why I am telling you, except…" he looked at her, studying her, "Marjory, I see her strength in you."

_What strength_? She wanted to say, and didn't. Warmth spread inside of her, and not from the fire.

"You must open your eyes to all that goes on around you. You've shown me that you already have, with your earlier comment in the tent. But there is more to the world than just this dividing line between Scotland and England. If I say nothing else to you, remember that fact."

"Alright." She grasped his hand, and squeezed it once. "Alright." He nodded, and stood up, leaving her alone once again.

* * *

Sleep came quickly for everyone, the previous evening's events wearing down on their constitution. It was nearly noon when the camp started to rouse, some sober, some still drunk on ale. The few men Campbell designated to stay behind stayed, with much reluctance; watching as the other men gathered up the weapons.

Marjory helped out in whatever way she could, and soon, in a few hours' time, everyone was ready to leave. She walked near the head of the procession, staying near Hamish and Andrew. William led, as per usual, turning around every now and again to look at Marjory. Every time, she nodded, and he nodded and smiled in return, turning back to lead his men.

Days blurred into weeks; mornings blurred into night. It was a relief when they reached the edge of Loudon Hill, where a garrison stood, miniscule from the long distance.

"Hamish!" William yelled, and he came over to his side, murmuring, "Yes?"

"Give Andrew, Campbell, yourself, and some off the other men an English uniform. Let me have one as well." He nodded, and trotted off to the back of the procession, bading the two men carrying large rucksacks to put them down. "Ah, perfect." He opened one, and the other, pulling out the English tunics and armor. "Do these _stink_," he groaned, and gathered the offending garments up in his arms, handing them to various men as he passed. "Put this on…put this on…" He kept only three, and when he reached the front again, handed the leftover uniforms to Andrew, Campbell, and William.

"These stink," Andrew groaned, while pulling on the tunic, and the minimal armor.

"Well, these once belonged to dead men," Campbell pointed out, as he dressed in the tunic and armor, pulling it on over his shirt and kilt.

"Point taken." William grimaced, as he finished dressing. "Well…how do I look? Passable?"

"Nice." Hamish said, and Andrew and Campbell affirmed with a nod.

"Men!" He faced the long line of men. "Whoever has an English uniform on will be going with Andrew, Hamish, Campbell, and I to Loudon Hill. Those who do not have a uniform on will stay behind and make camp here. Guard…" he pointed to the man in charge of seeing after Marjory, "…you know your job. Look after the lady. Alright men…let's move out!"

They formed a unit, five men in each row, a total of ten rows. Fifty Scotsmen, posing as dead Englishmen, marched from the outskirts to Loudon Hill. The rest stayed behind, making camp, and her guard grumbled again about "…being left behind."

* * *

The "unit" marched closer and closer to the garrison; the log gate opened to let them in, not aware they were letting in the enemy. A pompous man, the Lord Bottoms, dressed in red and white, with a little beard and a fat belly, came down the tower steps and walked over to them. He paused, hands on his hips, an arrogance abiding from him.

The men stopped, and William walked over to him, slowly pulling off the metal helmet so it would obscure his face.

"So…what news?"

William dropped the helmet to reveal his face, and punched Bottoms in the jaw. He fell to the ground, and in the time it took him to rise to his feet, the unit rushed the other men, holding them at bay.

"I have dispatched a hundred soldiers to Lanark! They will be returning…" he held up his finger, as if to punctuate his point, "…now!"

"Were they dressed like this?" He tugged at his tunic, and smiled wryly at Bottoms, watching as his eyes bugged out. "Actually, it was more like fifty. "Andrew," he turned, and mumbled, "make it quick." He stood by a wayward horse, attempting to give Andrew some modicum of privacy by turning his back. He couldn't see, but he could hear.

"Do you remember me?"

"I never did her any harm…'twas my right!"

"Your right? Well, I am here to claim the right of a husband!"

Bottoms screamed, and the axe hacked into his flesh once, twice. That was all it took. "Bastard," Andrew hissed, and spit on him, walking back to William. He nodded, and William turned around, addressing the Englishmen. "You have not resisted, and thus I shall tell you this: I am William Wallace, and the rest of you will be spared." His men released their hold on the Englishmen. "Now, Englishmen, go back to your England, and tell them that Scotland's daughters and her sons are yours no more. Tell them Scotland is free." The English soldiers ran past the Scots, a blur of red and silver polished armor.

One lad, William stopped…a skinny, gawky lad quivering in fear at the Scottish warrior. "Take word of this back to your king and his General: we have the general's daughter, Marjory. If he wants her back, he will have to pay five thousand pounds sterling."

"Y-y-yes, sir." He ran past, without a single glance back.

When the garrison was emptied of all save William's men, he shouted, "Burn it! Burn it all!"


End file.
